Sell Already, Damn House

I am abundantly blessed. The word prompt for this week’s Group Blogging Experience is longing and when I search my heart, there’s not a lot of longing going on in there. I’m happy with what I have, I love the people in my life and I’m creatively stimulated by what I do for a living. I’ve tried to think of a deeply meaningful and profound way to approach the subject; maybe a patriotic post about longing for world peace, or a direct post about longing for a robust economic recovery, or a haunting post about longing for a lost lover…

Fail.

The only thing I am REALLY longing for is a new house. The house we live in has been on the market for 3, yes, 3 years. 3 years! We want to downsize our house and upsize our yard. We want to scale down, simplify. We want to organize our life to where my husband can retire soon. But we can’t sell this damn house.

Here’s why it’s bugging me to the point of distraction:

Strangers want to enter our house at a moment’s notice

We live in our house, it’s not a showroom. We have a cat and a dog that live here too. We’re not slobs but we’re not top notch, everything-in-its-place-at-all-times kind of people. When we get notification of a showing, I drop everything and clean like a maniac for as much time as I’m given. It’s mayhem.

At the advice of our realtor, we de-cluttered and moved personal things

The family photos, framed kid’s artwork, craft projects and cool stuff are rotting in the basement; most of it is ruined by the extreme weather shifts. We never dreamed the good stuff would languish in the basement for 3 years! It’s sad.

I want another dog

Yeah, I know. But I do, really badly. We have no yard here and we’re trying to sell the house so it just doesn’t make sense. The timing is off. Still, I want to rescue another dog, and I have for the last 3 years. We’ve always said we’d get a friend for Frosty when we moved. I’ve been waiting for a long time. It’s maddening.

I could keep writing about this but I don’t want to be a complete downer. For those of you in our predicament, I wish you swift and good luck. For those of you that pray, please send up a few. If praying is not your thing, please light candles or dance naked or do that manifest thing or send positive thoughts, mojo, juju, or anything else that may help.

I am longing to sell this damn house.      

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This post is in participation with the Group Blogging Experience, and this week’s prompt is longing. If you want to blog with us, go to the GBE2 Facebook page and request to join the group. Everyone is welcome.

Hurricane Irene is Growing Wild

My cousin, my mom and I are having a girl’s weekend at the beach. We’re mourning and celebrating the life of Aunt Dot—and having a big time. One thing we’re not doing is keeping up with the news.

If it wasn’t for Facebook and telephone calls, I wouldn’t know that Hurricane Irene is coming to the coast of North Carolina and South Carolina. So whether I stay at Ocean Isle Beach, N.C. or go home to Charleston, S.C., I’ll likely face an angry tropical storm, or worse.

Hurricane Irene is growing wild; she’s up to a Category 3 storm with 125 mph maximum sustained winds.

Over the telephone, my husband and I made plans; we try to have a week’s worth of supplies on hand when a storm is coming—enough to get us through a week with no electricity. He’s going to find candles and matches, our transistor radio, flashlights, and batteries. He’ll also get our canisters of propane filled, get a full tank of gas in his car and get cash.

I went to the grocery store here on OIB for basic canned food that can be eaten hot or cold. I also got peanut butter, fresh fruit, bread and water. We’ve already got enough dog food and cat food at home.

For now, my plan is to drive from Ocean Isle Beach, N.C to Charleston, S.C. tomorrow morning. When I get back to Charleston, we’ll fill the bathtubs with water and canvas the outside of the house. We’ll bring outdoor furniture, potted plants, yard art (not that we have any, ha) and anything else that can go projectile inside. 

So we’re as ready as we can be. If the storm continues to grow wild, on into a Category 4, we’ll hit the road and travel west. Wish us luck.

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This post is in participation with the Group Blogging Experience, and this week’s prompt is growing wild. If you want to blog with us, go to the GBE2 Facebook page and request to join the group. Everyone is welcome.

 

The Bittersweet Vacation

Today is the last day of our annual beach vacation. It’s a once-per-year tradition that I cherish. My extended family is a riot and we don’t spend enough time together.

The reason it’s been a bittersweet vacation is because my mom’s sister—my sweet Aunt Dot—passed away during the week. Mom would not leave Aunt Dot’s side so she didn’t start the vacation with us, which seemed odd. Our annual family congregation is the high-water mark of Mom’s year; she says she’s never happier than when all her chickens are under one roof.

It was weird, being at the beach trying to have fun while Aunt Dot was suffering and Mom was with her. Yet Mom insisted we continue with the annual pilgrimage. She insisted we come to the beach and make merry. She didn’t want to let anyone down, especially her grand-kids, so we came without her.

After 2 days, Aunt Dot died. My brother, my sister and I made the car ride from the beach to her funeral. Anticipating this possibility, we had tucked funeral clothes into our bags, right next to our bathing suits and beach towels.

The drive to the funeral is the only time I can remember being alone with my siblings, just the 3 of us, as adults. It was a special time, which added to the complexity of contradicting emotions.

Once we arrived at Aunt Dot and Uncle Jerry’s house, we were greeted by distant relatives that we only see at weddings and funerals. I know that’s fairly typical of big families but it would be nice to see them more often.

After the funeral, visitation and family gathering, the sibs and I made a late night road trip back to the beach. Mom and Dad joined us the next day, so by Wednesday we were all together.

I’m waxing nostalgic because that’s how I feel. It was a wonderful and sad and hilarious and frenetic and heartwarming and heartbreaking week.

We’re already planning next year.   

How I Met My Husband

The bakery was crowded; a line snaked through the middle of the small room. A handsome, broad shouldered, overly starched man swaggered up to the girl as she entered through the front door. “You looking for somebody?” he asked, smilingly. “Depends on who’s asking” she shot back with feigned confidence. He had a small table reserved at the back of the bakery and motioned her to follow. She complied, checking out his backside as he led the way.

They sat and had a nice chat, learning a bit about one another. His crisp clothes, sharp haircut and upright posture worried her, he looked too neat. She didn’t like men who spent too much time in the mirror. In her experience, overly handsome men could be vain and narcissistic.   

She sat there politely, listening and watching as he talked with animation. Yes, she was listening, watching and wondering 1) is he going to offer me coffee and a pastry? 2) is he always this neat? 3) what’s the deal with those hands?

His hands were gnarled and scarred. It looked as if each finger had been broken more than once—in multiple places. Those hands sharply contrasted with his otherwise perfect appearance. There must be a good story about those hands. 

She wanted to know more about him.   

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This post is in participation with the Group Blogging Experience, and this week’s prompt is The Bakery. If you want to blog with us, go to the GBE2 Facebook page and request to join the group. Everyone is welcome.

Girls Raised in the South = G.R.I.T.S.

Maybe you've heard of grits the food (delicious!) but do you know about the GRITS acronym? Girls Raised in the South. That's me.

I'm from the south; born in North Carolina and now living on the coast of South Carolina. My rich and random life's journey has taken me all around the world. I've lived in many places and seen many things. Now I'm back to my roots. I'm southern born and southern bred. I'm one of the true GRITS, baby.

One of my life adventures found me and my thick southern accent <bad grammar on purpose> living in New York City and working in midtown Manhattan. I loved it. The Pakistani street vendor had a crush on me and my bagel was ready every morning when I arrived at Grand Central Station off of the 8:05 train - the Hudson River Express. (Wait, maybe it wasn't a crush... maybe he felt sorry for me, or protective of me? Maybe the sound of my voice made him laugh? Who knows. At least I got my bagel).

When I placed my order in a restaurant, a hush would fall over the crowd. Sometimes I heard giggles, snickers. I always got special attention; not many folks sounded like me up there.

Locals either thought my southern accent was charming (in a cartoonish way) or ridiculous.

Regardless of the subcategory they put me in, my accent placed me squarely in the dull category. Dull as in slow, not all there, not on the ball, not quick-minded. I won't go so far as to say I was considered dumb but, well, people had a big reaction to the sound of my dulcet tones.

Upon first meetings, (after recovering from the accent), the person would often slow their speech to match the pace of mine. As if my drawl made me hear slow! And think slow! It was all I could do not to bust out laughing. The condescension. No kidding, some people would talk to me as if I was an 8-year-old. But that was okay. I had a big job and used their low expectations to my advantage.

Did I mention how much I loved it up north? If used wisely, being underestimated can be a powerful tool.

Yep, that's how GRITS roll. Dumb like a fox.

Oh Joy, Colonoscopy Time

Yep, I'm getting a colonoscopy on Monday. Because I'm not excited about the procedure, I've put off paying attention to the preparation required. Just today, I glanced at the paperwork and got a rude surprise. The paper says I'm supposed to avoid raw fruits and vegetables as well as nuts and seeds.

Yikes. I'm a vegetarian. Sure, I can eat cooked vegetables but no nuts? No fruits?

Before I even read the preparation sheet I had already broken the rules. This morning I had oatmeal loaded up with a banana (bad), blueberries (bad), and walnuts (bad).

Bad, but really, really good.

I have a fresh avocado and baby lettuce begging to be eaten for lunch today. I have half-dozen ripe South Carolina peaches on my counter and at least one was going to be my mid-afternoon snack. Nope.

I called the nice lady at the doctor's office to confess--and to see what my options are. She told me not to eat any more of the 'bad stuff' between now and Monday. Kibosh on the avocado, lettuce, peaches and all other manner of deliciousness. I politely asked her what I could eat.

Her answer was: processed foods. I'm no food freak but really? Processed foods is the answer?

Process foods = healthy colon?

Well, of course not. But that's the way it's got to be. So in preparation for my colonoscopy on Monday, I'll spend this weekend enjoying mouth-watering processed foods.

She didn't say anything about beer...

Welcome to My Blog

One year ago I started my first blog. I used WordPress because, well, I don't know why. I just did. Days later, I started what I thought would be an experimental blog on Blogger. Experimental because I was just dipping my toe in, learning by doing. Opinions vary wildly so I reasoned that blogging on both platforms would force me to choose which fit me better.

After a year, I can say that I like Blogger better. You can read about all the reasons here, if you care... WordPress vs. Blogger, the Conclusion.

Since that time, I've freshened up my original, experimental Blogger blog and given it a niche: Langley Writes About Writing.. The feedback has been tremendous. So much so that I started another niche blog on Blogger: Hearts in Fur Coats.

And I abandoned my WordPress Blog, which makes me sad(ish) and leaves me in a quandary. Sad(ish) because I wrote a lot about my family ♥ and want those stories and memories to stay published (if just for us). In a quandary because I want to write about things that don't fit into a writing blog or a pets blog. 

Welcome to my solution. I'm moving my WP blog over here. I'm littering Blogger with yet another random, niche-less blog. A catch-all, mixed-bag, (insert your own cliche) blog that will cover all manner of drivel. 

So, to make this intro post mind-numbingly long (and further indulge myself), I'm including the text from my very first post:

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Hello World 

Hello world is an appropriate enough beginning, so I think I'll leave it at that. In fact, it bears repeating. Hello world! It's about time I got into this blogging business. I've got a lot to say and you *might* find some of it interesting. If not, let me know. All feedback is appreciated and I know I can learn from what you have to say.

So this is me jumping in. This is a blog about my rich and random life. I say rich because the opportunities and experiences in my life have exceed my wildest dreams. I say random because the opportunities and experiences are so varied that the only way to describe them is random.

A college professor once told me:

"Langley, you're pretty good at a lot of things but not great at any one thing. People who are only good at one thing have an easier time in this life. Their path is clear. You'll have tough choices to make."

That's pretty heavy to say to a college kid. At the time, I really didn't get what she meant. Was that an insult, a compliment or simply an observation? Now that, um, several years have passed, I know exactly what she meant. And it was an insightful observation. Because I am pretty good at a lot of things, I've done a lot of things, which results in a rich and random life.